We had come to the great church of St. Paul, beyond the ancient walls of the city. There we left our car and passed through a crowd of insistent beggars to enter its door. We shivered in our wraps under the great, golden ceiling high above our heads. Its towering columns and pilasters looked like sculptured ice. It was all so cold!
“It doesn't seem right,” I said to Mrs. Norris, “that one should get a chill in the house of God.”
“Keep cool ought to be good advice for Christians,” said Betsey.
“But coldness and hospitality are bad companions,” I insisted. “Chilling grandeur a people might reasonably expect from their king; but is it the thing for a prodigal returning to his father's house?”
“But isn't it beautiful?”
Mrs. Norris wished me to agree, and I shocked her by saying:
“Beautiful, but too much like kings' palaces. The Golden House of Nero was just this kind of thing, and it's on record that Jesus Christ had no taste for show and glitter. I believe He called it vanity.” Mrs. Norris wore a look of surprise. The old horse called Honesty took the bit in his teeth then and fairly ran away with me.
“The whole difference between Europe and America is in this building,” I said. “We no longer believe in kings or kings' palaces in heaven or upon earth. With most of us God has ceased to be an emperor rejoicing in pomp and splendor and adulation. We find that He likes better to dwell in a cabin and a humble heart. We do not believe that he cares for the title of king. We do not believe that there are any titles in heaven.”
At this point I observed a look of astonishment in the face of Mrs. Norris, so I suddenly closed the tap of my thoughts.
Was it my philosophy? No, it was Muggs who lifted his hat (or rather my hat) as he passed us with the sentimental Mrs. Mullet clinging to his arm.